Given Name
by Literary Bitca
Summary: After the events of 2x01, Naomi Hyland is re-acquired and questioned about her life with Reddington. Armed with new information, Liz goes to talk to him.
1. Chapter 1

Given Name

Disclaimer: I do not own the Blacklist characters, and I make no money off of this.

Chapter 1

…..:::::

It was eerie how simple it had been to recover Naomi Hyland. Harold Cooper and the rest of the team were operating under the assumption that Berlin had given her up on purpose to further his plan.

Whatever 'his plan' was.

There were multiple opinions on the subject: he had gotten what he needed from her, and released her, having no further use for the woman. He had released her as a distraction. He had given her information to deliver to them. She was an accomplice, and everything she said was a carefully crafted lie designed to mislead them. Whatever the reason, their response was generally the same. She had to be questioned.

She had already been in the interrogation room at the Post Office for several hours, recounting—in great detail—her abduction and the time she'd spent with the man calling himself Berlin. Liz paid close attention to her shifting moods throughout the interview, noting her anger, her focus, her exhaustion. She hadn't cried. She had been almost mechanical during her explanation of the events immediately leading up to and including the amputation of her finger.

After reviewing the recent events so many times that Liz felt she could recite them herself in Naomi's own words, she had asked about what Reddington had been like when they were married. "Is there anything you can tell us about his life that might be useful in tracking Berlin, or discovering their connection? How much of his activities were you aware of while you were still married to him?"

"You can't imagine what it was like to be married to Raymond," Naomi said. "He loved us, I know that. But we always came second. If there was a job to be done, a new case or task or mission, or whatever the hell his job actually entailed, _that_ came first. He'd come home soaking wet, or covered in blood—not his own—" she interrupted herself, "or he'd stumble in with a broken arm or black eye. He'd risk his life and personal safety at the drop of a hat, but he never considered the people in his life who loved him, and wanted him to be safe. And _present_. I stopped sleeping, because if he wasn't home, I'd have nightmares about what he might be doing. Sometimes the nightmares even came true; one time he disappeared for days…I finally got a call from a hospital six hours away saying he'd been admitted to their burn unit with second and third degree burns over most of his back. How the hell does that happen? That doesn't happen to normal people in the Navy. I remember arriving in his hospital room, frantic, and asking him how he'd gotten the burns. He was so delirious from the pain medication that I thought I could get something truthful out of him about his job—for once—while his guard was down, but he just kept saying, 'I did something good. I did one good thing.'" Naomi cringed and knit her eyebrows together in disgust and sighed. "How could anything he was doing out there be worth the damage he was doing to his own family?"

Liz had been silently absorbing the details of Naomi's story, continuing her initial psychological profile of the woman who had been married to Raymond Reddington, scribbling notes on a legal pad in front of her. When Naomi had mentioned the burns, her hand had frozen, her pen stalled halfway through a word. The notes suddenly forgotten, Liz asked, "Naomi, when was that? When did he get burned? What year?"

"Oh, God, I don't know…it was over twenty years ago. I remember being angry at him for missing something while he was gone, but I don't even remember what it was anymore. They all just blur together. He missed so many things. He missed anniversaries, he missed bedtimes, he missed first steps and birthday parties..." Naomi looked up at Liz earnestly, her eyebrows raised. "Don't get me wrong, when he was there, he was a good husband, and a _great_ father." She paused, and spread her hands out on the table in front of her, and Liz silently counted to nine without realizing she was doing it. "When he was _there_," she repeated. "But when you have to explain to your little girl that even though daddy promised he'd see her ballet performance this time, he just wasn't able to make it home tonight…you start to hate him a little bit. And when she insists on sleeping in her swan outfit so he can see her in her costume the next morning, but he's still not there when she wakes up…your hate grows. He misses Christmas by a few days one year, and doesn't come home at all the year after that. And suddenly you're in witness protection. Somewhere between the first missed anniversary and teaching your daughter her new name, you forget the loving husband you adored so much when you married him."

There was a knock at the door, and Ressler stepped into the room. "Agent Keen, Director Cooper needs a word with you. He's in his office."

Liz looked from Ressler to Naomi and back again, trying to keep her expression professional as she mentally lunged for the excuse to leave. She suddenly felt like if she had to take one more breath in the interrogation room she'd suffocate. "Of course," she told Ressler, turning back to Naomi. "Thank you for discussing all of this with us. I'm sure it's difficult to talk about, but if you don't mind, Agent Ressler is going to take over in here; please tell him anything else you remember that you think might be of help to us." Liz stood up hastily and was halfway to the door when Naomi spoke up again.

"Midas turned everything he touched into gold. Who was the one who turned everything he touched into ash?" She stared across the room with unfocused, haunted eyes.

Liz shook her head. "I've never heard of someone who could do that."

Naomi smiled miserably and tilted her head, looking up at Liz. "Yes, you have," she said softly, the smile sliding back off her face as her eyes drifted back down to the table.

…..:::::

So this is just sort of a prologue… The real story in my head is what happens when Liz goes to see Reddington, wanting to talk—armed with some new information and the substantial bargaining chip of being in possession of his ex-wife.

I'm planning to post the final chapter of my other Blacklist fic before I sink my teeth into this one full-force, so it might be a few days before Part 2 of this story gets posted. I just figured, hey, since it's already written, why not put it out there now? Plus, I feel like as soon as 2x02 airs, my version of events will be proven wrong, and suddenly I'll have to label this fic AU. :\

Let me know what you think! I love reviews; they make me grin. :) Please comment before you leave the page! Please? ::hopeful smile::


	2. Chapter 2

Given Name

Disclaimer: I do not own The Blacklist characters, and I make no money off of this.

Author's note: Okay, Back Upstairs is finished, and now I get to concentrate on this little nugget of a story. :) And I've decided they're in the same universe. You don't have to read Back Upstairs first to understand this one, but I might drop in a reference or two. :)

Chapter 2

…..:::::

Liz pulled up in front of Reddington's current place of residence and turned off the car. Cooper had ordered her in no uncertain terms to find Reddington and bring him in for questioning by the next morning at the very latest. The lack of intel on Berlin was worrying everyone, and the sudden silence from their—arguably, most valuable—asset was disconcerting, especially after how demanding and outspoken he had been prior to Naomi Hyland's involvement.

Liz hadn't admitted to anyone that she had much more personal reasons for tracking down Raymond Reddington tonight. She had spent the entire drive from the office imaging the conversation in her head, running questions, and practicing exactly what she was going to say. The imagined answers Red gave her in her hypothetical interrogation only served to make her angry, and by the time she had finally pulled into the driveway, she had riled herself up to the point where she was ready to unleash a very harshly worded tirade on the man who had willfully concealed so many important details of her life from her.

Liz knocked firmly on the heavy front door, and waited less than a minute for a response before she tried the handle. The house looked dark from the outside, but she found the door unlocked, so she let herself in.

"Dembe?" she called into the darkness. "Red?"

Silence continued in the house, but Liz noticed a warm, flickering glow lit the walls down the hallway to her left. She locked the front door behind her and started down the dark passage, noting the faint sound of glass clinking as she got closer to the old study. As she rounded the corner into the room, she saw there was a healthy fire in the fireplace, and Reddington was seated on the plush couch in front of it, a tumbler in one hand.

"Your front door was unlocked," she said tersely, standing in the doorway.

"You don't have a key." He downed the remainder of his drink and motioned to a large arm chair next to the couch, offering her a seat.

"Red—" Liz started, a hard edge to her voice.

"Yes, _Red_," he interrupted, leaning forward to refill his glass, which he took down in a single gulp, and refilled again immediately. "The color of bricks…and blood. Wine, and rubies, and roses… and fire." He leaned back into the deep cushions of the couch, extending one arm across the back. His unfocused eyes were aimed in Liz's general direction, but he didn't look at her. "The color of the big cartoon button that launches missiles, or stops the countdown."

This was not the Raymond Reddington Liz had been expecting, and she felt momentarily off-balance. Hesitatingly, she cast her eyes around the room for Dembe, and reached for a lamp that stood next to the large armchair. The body guard was nowhere to be seen. "How much have you had to drink tonight?" Liz asked cautiously, looking at the cut glass decanter in front of Red. She tried to remember what the liquid level had been the last time she was in this room. "And where's Dembe?" When the man on the couch didn't acknowledge her, she prompted sharply, "_Hey_."

"You've never called me by my given name. Not once. Not ever." Red frowned at the liquid in his glass. Liz opened her mouth in surprise, but didn't speak. Red waved at her dismissively. "And for God's sake, don't do it now. It would be worth about as much as the compliment a teenager gets when she has to prompt her homecoming date to tell her she's pretty." He looked up and made a face at Liz as she moved toward a second lamp. "And stop turning on lights; the room was dark by design."

Liz stopped and sighed. She moved back to the large armchair and sat, clasping her hands in front of her and resting her elbows on her knees. The heat from the fireplace made the room warm, but the high ceilings kept the temperature from being stuffy. Liz realized the light from the lamp she had turned on was intrusive, casting harsher shadows that the flickering flames did, and she reached up to switch it back off.

"Thank you," Red murmured.

"I asked you not to call me Lizzie the first time we met. You ignored that request." Liz shrugged. "It's a nickname. I'm sure you consider it an endearment." Reddington remained silent. "I think 'Red' suits you. Do you think it's fair that you get to choose what _you_ call _me_, and I'm not entitled to do the same with you?"

"The more you work with me, _Lizzie,_ the more you'll realize I thoroughly enjoy double standards," Red said, finishing his drink again and leaning forward to refill it. Once he'd splashed another inch into the bottom of glass, Liz reached forward and smoothly took it from his hand. She nodded at him as if to thank him for offering it to her, and sipped the brown liquid. He sighed and leaned back, granting her the small victory.

"You cut your hair."

"Yes. Days ago. You've been… Where _have_ you been?" Liz asked.

"Here and there…out and about…" Reddington looked pained as he answered, but Liz didn't understand the significance of his words.

"Where's Dembe?"

"He's not here."

"You're alone?" she asked, surprised, glancing around the room again. She felt a sudden need to check the house, the doors. "You're never alone," she said suspiciously.

"I am now."

"When is he coming back?"

"What are you doing here, Lizzie?" Red asked, leaning forward to mirror her posture, elbows on knees.

Liz swallowed another mouthful of the liquor and set the glass on the table in front of her. "I spent the afternoon questioning Naomi Hyland."

Red tilted his head, lifting his chin and maintaining eye contact. "And?"

"We haven't seen or heard from you since we recovered her. We know you were aware of the developments as they happened; you know we have her. You haven't called, you haven't requested to see her, you haven't asked for additional information." Liz paused, but Reddington said nothing. "People want to compare her story with yours, Red. We need to talk to you about this, and we need your help to catch Berlin."

"I have not seen my ex-wife in many years," Reddington started slowly, looking down at his hands. "Now that it seems she has once again become embroiled in my affairs…" He trailed off and sighed. "I need to decide what my level of involvement should be from now on. For everyone's safety."

"The time for vague and cryptic answers has passed. You need to start talking to me, _now_, or Cooper's going to put you in a box until you do," she said honestly.

"Do you know how much I'm worth, Lizzie?" Red looked up at her, his eyebrows raised. "Hmm? If you combined all of the accounts and investments and secret stashes I have around the globe, I could probably buy the state of Florida." He paused to grimace. "Maybe not Florida. But I'm sure you see my point." He reached for the glass in front of Liz again, but she snatched it up before he could get there.

"No, not quite yet," she said.

Reddington sighed, continuing to stare at the drink in her hands. He wiped a palm roughly across his face as if to brush away some of the alcohol's haze, and sat back into the corner of the couch again, his body rotated to face Liz. "What has she told you?" he asked in a low voice.

"She told us about the kidnapping. Where she was held." She paused, swirling the liquid in the glass. "He took one of her fingers. My guess is that you've already received it. Am I right?"

After a beat, Reddington said brusquely, "Yes."

Liz nodded, took another swallow from the drink, and passed it back to Red. She couldn't imagine how hard that package must have been for him to open. No wonder he was drinking like this.

"He didn't hurt her otherwise," Liz offered. "She's been checked out by a doctor and she's going to be fine."

Reddington gulped the rest of the contents of the glass, but didn't move to put it down. Apparently he felt enough was enough, and Liz was relieved he didn't pour himself more.

"'_Fine_,'" Reddington repeated, as if the word tasted funny. "I destroyed that woman's life over twenty years ago, and now I'm burning it to the ground all over again. What else did she tell you?"

"After talking to her, I don't think she's working with Berlin. She seems genuinely—"

"No, not about current events." Red gestured to the door with his empty glass. "You walked in here with purpose, and a very particular look on your face. What do you _actually_ want to talk about tonight?"

Liz took a deep breath. "When was the first time we met? Before the Post Office, before the Blacklist. When did _you_ first meet _me_?"

"I have eighty-three separate bank accounts," Red said seriously.

Liz sighed in frustration and shook her head as she stood up, irritated that he was dodging her questions in such a childish way. She went to take the glass from him, but he held it out of her reach and leaned into her line of sight. "Half of them with more than a million dollars in each. I have actual gold figuratively and literally buried in a dozen countries. I own a Picasso, and three race horses. I'm a very, very silent majority shareholder in several companies, and the Argyle diamond mine in Western Australia… well, that land is not technically in _my_ name, but I own it nonetheless."

"What is your point, Red?" Liz asked bluntly.

"You ask me to tell you the truth. But I would give all of it-everything I have-if I knew that by telling you the truth I wouldn't lose you, or your respect. Whatever small amount of those two things I have."

Liz was taken aback, and realized she had frozen with her hand outstretched toward the empty glass still held out of reach by Red. She dropped her arm and backed up, her legs hitting the table behind her after two steps. Not bothering to return to her chair, she sat down on the edge of the table, holding his gaze the whole time.

"I've been shot. Electrocuted. I've been injected with chemicals designed for torture. I've been hung from ceilings and tied to floors. I've been whipped, and beaten. I've been…" he trailed off with an exhale, looking past Liz to the open fireplace, working his jaw while he searched for the right way to continue.

"…burned?" Liz supplied, barely above a whisper.

Red's eyes were immediately on guard, and they flicked quickly from the fire to her face. He took a slow breath. Her expression was unreadable, her face in shadow, backlit by the glow coming from the hearth. After a moment he gave a single, controlled nod. "I've been burned," he agreed in a low voice. "Lizzie, none of those things hurt me the way your eyes did when you looked at me after you learned the truth about Sam's death. I used to think of myself as a strong man. But I _know_…I would never survive if you looked at me that way ever again. You ask me to tell you the truth. The truth is I don't want to."

Liz let out a breath she didn't realize she was holding. "I _have_ to ask you some questions," she said finally. "I can promise to sit and listen to whatever you have to say, and if you're looking for my respect, I can tell you that after everything I've been through in the last year, I respect honesty _very much_."

Reddington studied the shadows of her face for a moment before nodding.

"But before we get started," Liz said, pushing herself to a standing position and pointing at the tumbler still gripped in Reddington's hand before walking to the bar on the far side of the room, "I think I'm going to need my own glass."

…:::::

There's more! This won't be a long fic, though. Maybe just one more longer-ish chapter?

Please comment before you leave the page! Please? Pretty please?


	3. Chapter 3

Given Name

Disclaimer: I do not own Blacklist characters, and I make no money from this.

Author's note: This gets angsty. Like if angst were gold coins, Red and Liz could go swimming in it a la Scrooge McDuck.

Chapter 3

…..:::::

"Before we get started," Liz said, pushing herself to a standing position and pointing at the tumbler still gripped in Reddington's hand before walking to the bar on the far side of the room, "I think I'm going to need my own glass."

Liz grabbed one from the shelf and returned to her armchair, sitting down on the edge so she could lean forward and grab the decanter. She poured herself a generous amount of the scotch and sat back.

"So where shall we start?" Reddington asked. "I have a feeling this is going to be delightfully unpleasant."

"Your choice. The FBI wants to know about you, and Naomi, and Berlin. I want to know about you, and _me_."

"Is there another option?"

"This is a binary system, Red. One or zero?"

Red leaned forward and refilled his glass. He took a long gulp before leaning back into the cushions with an airy smile. "I like your hair short. It suits you."

"Thank you, and I'll take that as an indication you want to talk about you and me first, rather than you, Naomi, and Berlin. Fine by me."

Reddington had been casually swirling his scotch with a practiced twist of his wrist, but at this he paused to glare at Liz before resuming the motion. "That's not what I said."

"Then let's just say I'm choosing for you."

Reddington let out a quick breath through his nose and gave an acerbic smile.

"You've known me for much longer than I've known you," Liz began. "You knew Sam before he even adopted me. We first met when I was a child, didn't we?"

Silence stretched between them for a long minute before Red lifted his drink and took another sip. "When I went to see Sam in the hospital… we talked about you a great deal. I told him I'd finally gotten the chance to meet you, and that I was very impressed with the job he'd done…raising you into the woman you'd become. I told him you were… strong. That I could see some of the best parts of him in you."

"I should also explain that you're not allowed to lie to me tonight," Liz warned.

Reddington sighed in frustration. "So little trust. How many times do I have to tell you, Lizzie: I don't lie to you."

"You hadn't _just _gotten the chance to meet me. You'd been following my life for _years_. How many years, Red?" she asked, a hard edge to her tone.

"When I say I'd finally gotten the chance to meet you, I mean_ you_. Elizabeth Keen." Red sat forward, his elbows on his knees, and looked at Liz earnestly, but his voice held more than a hint of annoyance. "The FBI agent. The grown woman, with a personality, and beliefs, and goals. The completed person. Someone you can have a conversation and connect with. Not a child unwilling to let go of a badly singed stuffed rabbit."

Liz felt her chest go cold.

Reddington obviously regretted what he had said, because he closed his eyes briefly with a wince, downed the rest of the contents of his glass, and refilled it. He kept it in his hand, but sat back into the couch, reclining his head on the cushions, his eyes closed again, and a slight frown on his face.

"Maybe you should switch to water at this point in the evening," Liz suggested in a near-whisper, still trying to process the vague admission.

Red didn't move, and didn't open his eyes. "At this point, I'm drinking for your sake, Lizzie," he said, "you're going to get much more out of me if I keep this up. To be honest, I can't even taste it anymore. Which, you know, is quite a shame, considering…" He trailed off.

"When I asked you if you were my father, you didn't answer immediately." Liz shifted in her seat. "Were you considering lying to me?"

"No."

"Why did it take you so long to answer?"

Reddington sat up with a groan and opened his eyes. "I didn't appreciate the question," he said, staring at Liz coldly.

"You care about me," Liz said matter-of-factly.

"Is that a statement or another question?" Red asked, taking another swig of scotch.

"You've known me since I was a child. Can you see how this presents a problem if you're telling me the way you care about me isn't parental?"

Red frowned and dragged his palm roughly over his head, trying to clear cobwebs. "Like I _said_… the child you _were_, and the woman you are _now_, are _two separate people_." Red looked up at Liz. "_We_ met in the Post Office," he insisted, his voice firm. "_That_ is when we met."

"You sound very insistent. Are you sure you aren't trying to convince yourself?"

"You're _much_ less attractive when you wear your shrink hat," Red said, narrowing his eyes.

"So you think I'm attractive."

Red opened his mouth to fire back, but thought better of it, closing his mouth with a snap. He turned his attention back to his drink, and took another swallow. "Don't feel too special. I've had a lot to drink tonight. I'd probably find Mr. Kaplan just as attractive right now."

The corner of Liz's mouth tugged a bit in amusement before she could stop it.

Reddington sighed, trying to shake off his momentary distemper. "The level in your glass hasn't changed since you poured it," he pointed out, his voice softer than it had been a moment before. "I thought you said you needed that."

"I don't remember you," Liz said, lifting the scotch and taking a sip, as if she'd actually been instructed to do so. "From my childhood."

"You wouldn't. I looked quite different then." Red gave a self-deprecating smile as he gestured to his head. "_Hair_," he explained.

"I've seen pictures of you back then. In your file. I think you look distinguished the way you are now." She shrugged, and took a larger mouthful of the scotch. "The point is, I still don't remember you."

Reddington was grinning. "Ahh. The truth comes out. 'Distinguished', am I?"

Liz shifted again in her chair, and kicked off her shoes, tucking one foot underneath the opposite thigh. "Well, tonight you look like a bit of a mess, if I'm going to be completely honest. But when you've got your full suit and fedora on..." Liz nodded at Red's hat, which lay in the center of the table in front of them. She tilted her head as if contemplating how to phrase her next thought. "Hmm. We'll just say you clean up nice."

Reddington looked down at his shirt, the sleeves of which he had rolled up his forearms, and then twisted awkwardly to look behind himself at the bar, where his discarded vest and tie lay across the high counter. "There are many physical shortcomings—like losing one's hair—" he said with a raised eyebrow, "—that can be offset by dressing sharply." Reddington gave a self-satisfied smile. "I've found that a well-tailored suit is to women what lingerie is to men."

Liz considered the comparison for a moment before accepting it, and nodded into her drink. "Good analogy," she allowed. She leaned forward and grabbed the fedora, palming it smoothly onto her own head. "How do I look?"

Red looked over at Liz and opened his mouth to say something, an unreadable expression on his face. After a moment he let a long breath out through his teeth. He looked her up and down before turning his attention back to his scotch, which he downed in one gulp. "I'm going to have a headache," he announced ruefully.

Liz raised her eyebrows and reluctantly removed Red's hat, replacing it on the table.

"Are you going to take me up on my offer of a glass of water now?" she asked.

"No. But I'm going to insist you catch up," he replied, motioning to her glass.

"Okay." Liz mirrored Reddington's action and, in two quick swallows, emptied her glass and stood up to set it down in front of him. "Blehhh." Red looked surprised, but said nothing. Liz nodded pointedly at the decanter. "Refill, please," she requested, returning to curl up in her chair. Red splashed more into her glass and slid it down the length of the table as far as he could reach, and Liz leaned over to grab it. "Thank you."

They sat in silence for several moments, relatively comfortable without the need for continued dialogue. Finally Liz broke the silence. "Why don't we talk a little bit about Berlin?" she suggested.

Reddington heaved a somewhat theatrical sigh in protest.

"There's more you're not telling me."

"I obviously wronged the man without realizing the extent of it, but I can't tell you anything about the specific 'wrong'. Pick a new topic." Red didn't look at Liz, his voice harsh.

"It must have been a pretty big 'wrong', Red. He doesn't just want to kill you, he wants to _dismantle_ you. He wants to pick apart your entire life, break it down, brick by brick, and he obviously wants it to be agonizing. You _have_ to have some idea what could prompt a man to have that reaction. I know you've done things in your life—"

"No, you don't know," Red interrupted in a low voice, and Liz fell silent. Red worked his jaw as if trying to find a way to form the beginning of his next thought. "I was never a very good man. Even when I was young, with a family. I told myself I was doing things for the right reasons, that I…" He sighed and closed his eyes. "I chose my job over my family. I left them—not entirely of my own volition, in the beginning—as a man trying to be good, but when I _stayed_ away, that was by choice. I ran further away, and I became even worse. I did things I hope you never find out about. Not just the fact that _I _did them; I hope that you never find out that actions like that even exist in this world."

Red took another large swallow of his drink and reached to set the glass down on the table. The total amount of alcohol he had consumed that night finally manifested itself: he caught the bottom of the glass on the edge of the table and it broke, splashing the remainder of his scotch over his hand and onto the rug below. Attempting to catch the pieces, Red only managed to draw blood, and he dropped what he had in his hand with a growl, bringing a bleeding finger to his mouth and sucking on it.

Liz uncurled her legs and sat forward, watching Red carefully. "Is it bad?" she asked, her eyes trained on the hand at his mouth. She set her own glass down gingerly on the table.

Red withdrew the finger from his mouth, leaving a smear of crimson on his bottom lip as the small cut continued to bleed.

"_Damn_," he swore.

Liz stood and crossed quickly to the bar, grabbing a stack of cocktail napkins before returning to Red.

"Here," she offered, giving him half of them. She picked up the large pieces of broken glass—thankfully it looked like it had fractured into easily visible pieces only, especially considering she had rushed over without putting her shoes back on—and knelt to dab at the carpet for a moment before realizing the intricate design of the Oriental rug would hide a multitude of sins, and no one would ever know that anything was spilt there. She looked up at Red, who had wrapped his finger haphazardly.

"That's not going to stop anything," she said, moving up onto the couch next to him, and reaching for his hand, which he withdrew, scowling.

"Give it a minute. As they say in trauma surgery, all bleeding stops. Eventually."

"Yes, but I'd rather have yours stop due to healing, rather than death." Liz glanced down at Reddington's mouth, where the spot of blood remained on his lip. "Come here," she said softly, turning his head toward her with a gentle hand on his jaw, raising a napkin to attempt to wipe away the red smear.

"I've got it," Red said, angling his head away from her and taking the rest of the napkins from her other hand. He licked his bottom lip, sucking it into his mouth, and swiped at it with his thumb. Satisfied that he'd taken care of the smudge, his attention returned to the source of the blood.

"You need to wrap it tighter, Red, you're already starting to bleed through that one—"

Red lifted his chin in the direction of the armchair. "You can return to your seat now."

"You'd actually probably benefit from a stitch or two," Liz said, still looking back down at his hand.

"Get off my couch, Lizzie," Red said sharply.

Liz rose slowly and returned to the chair. "Don't snap at me," she reprimanded him, a little hurt.

Red sighed and leaned forward, elbows on his knees, and his right hand clasped tightly around his left, keeping pressure on his wound. He closed his eyes and leaned his head against his hands, almost as if he were praying.

"Do you know how diabetes works, Lizzie?" he asked quietly, and continued without waiting for her answer. "It's a terribly insidious disease if you're not born with it. Usually you don't even know there's anything wrong for years. Maybe you notice a few minor things, but those things are generally ignored. You keep eating sweets, you keep eating a little too much, because you like doing it; it makes you feel good. One day you notice your hands and feet feel numb due to the onset of nerve damage, but you don't do anything about it because it doesn't hurt. Your lack of protective pain sensation and feedback leads to an injury you don't realize you have until it develops into a wound, which gets infected, and suddenly you've lost your leg. You wonder how in the world this happened so fast; you only noticed the wound on your foot a week ago. But the wound is just a symptom of the gradual decay that has been happening internally for years. You've been rotting from the inside out, and the death only just reached the surface, but it's been there for a long time. You just didn't pay attention. And within five years of losing that leg, more than half of diabetics are dead."

Liz waited to see if he would continue, and when he didn't, she prompted quietly, "What's your point, Red?"

"I fear Berlin is that first wound for me. Maybe he's not to blame for all of my current problems. I think he might just be a symptom of my larger issue that has been brewing for years. That I've done nothing about. That I figured I could deal with. I'm afraid I'm going to lose a leg before this is over."

"I've seen you pretend to be drunk before. You're much darker when it's the real thing," Liz noted, not unkindly.

Silence reigned in the warm room for several minutes. Liz finished her glass of scotch and poured herself more. Finally she cleared her throat. "I have more questions for you, Red," she said gently.

"I don't want to talk about Berlin, or my wife." Red finally lifted his head from his hands. With his injured hand balled into a fist at his side, he reclined back into the couch cushions, his right forearm tossed over his eyes.

"Then that leaves the topic of your history with me."

"Okay," Red granted. "Let's talk about us."

…..:::::

Okay, peeps. I know I said this was probably going to be the last chapter, but Rule #1: the Doctor lies. Turns out I have more to say, and this was getting long, so I cut it here. You'll get another chapter in the next week or two, the speed depending on whether or not I feel the need to add to You Missed A Spot after 2x03 airs. :)

Let me know what you thought! Please review before you leave! Compliments will make me grin, and trolls will be petted and given a lollipop.


	4. Chapter 4

Given Name

Disclaimer: I do not own the characters on the Blacklist, nor do I make money from this.

Author's note: More angst, peoples. Plus, a little addition at the end that will probably only amuse me, but if you've read Back Upstairs, there's a slight possibility that it'll make you smile, too.

Chapter 4

…..:::::

"I have more questions for you, Red," Liz said gently.

"I don't want to talk about Berlin, or my wife." Red lifted his head from his hands. With his injured hand balled into a fist at his side, he reclined back into the couch cushions, his right forearm tossed over his eyes. He breathed out heavily.

"Then that leaves the topic of your history with me." Liz balanced her drink on the arm of her chair, staring at it as she steadied it by placing her index finger lightly on the rim.

"Okay," Red granted, not moving. "Let's talk about us."

Liz nodded, wondering where to start. To her surprise, Red began talking without further prompting.

"I knew you when you were young. Sam was a good man, and a good father, and you're lucky to have… been placed with him," he said carefully. "He knew he was sick years before he told you, but I knew about his diagnosis very early on. He made me promise to look after you once he was gone, and I felt that if I was going to be any good at that, I'd need to _know_ you." Reddington dropped his arm from his face and rolled his head to the side to look at Liz. "But my lifestyle wasn't what you would call stable, or safe by any means, and I was unwilling to bring that near you any earlier than I'd have to. So I watched. From afar. I watched you graduate from college. I watched you date that… what was his name? He had…" Red frowned and swallowed, trying to think through the daze of too much alcohol consumption. He ran his right hand down his left arm. "…tattoos. One of a… one-eyed mermaid? On a motorcycle."

Liz smiled and shook her head, cringing a little. "Evan Zemler," she supplied.

"Yes!" Red smiled and closed his eyes. "Evan Zemler. He was an idiot. I was surprised he lasted as long as he did."

"Well, he was cute, and I was twenty-two. Everybody has to date _one_ bad boy before they realize they're not a good idea." Liz picked up her glass and took a sip. "But when he got busted for possession with intent to sell, that was the end of that."

Red pursed his lips. "In the spirit of full disclosure, I might have had something to do with that."

"_What_?" Liz asked, sitting up straighter.

"I didn't _frame_ him, exactly, I just made sure he was carrying slightly more product than usual and tipped off the local police after…placing an order with poor Evan." Red had the decency to look slightly contrite. "He was dealing the entire time you were dating, and was lying to you about it," he said by way of an explanation. "And we couldn't have that."

Liz realized her mouth was open. "That's…he got three years for that!" she said.

"He didn't deserve you. He _deserved_ jail time."

"_Red—_"

"And you were on your way to a career in law enforcement," he went on. "Better that Evan was completely removed from your life before background checks began."

Liz sighed in frustration. "What else did you have a hand in?" she asked. "Wait, no—if you were so willing to go to those lengths to protect me from petty drug dealers, why in the _world _did you let me marry _Tom_?" The hard, accusing edge to her voice came across harsher than she realized.

A miserable look crossed Red's face, and he pushed forward to the edge of the couch. He looked down at his finger, wrapped in a stained napkin, and slowly unwrapped it. "The simple truth is that the way Tom was inserted into your life was masterful, and I missed it. He had all the documentation, he cleared background checks, he… seemed to treat you well." Red inspected his finger, which appeared to have stopped bleeding, but just in case, he rewrapped it with a clean square from the small pile in front of him.

"I married him," Liz whispered. "He got awfully far, Red."

Reddington looked over at Liz. "Please believe me when I say if I had any—_any_—idea of who and what Tom Keen was at the time, I _never_ would have let that wedding take place," he said vehemently. "He was very good at what he did." Red looked across the room at the fire. "And I missed it."

"Before you found out about him… you thought he was a good man? Someone who… 'deserved' me?"

Red furrowed his brow. "Well, I wouldn't go that far. I had resigned myself to the fact that you would never find a man who I would think was good enough for you. So with Tom, I suppose… I settled." He looked over at Liz and motioned at the glass in her hand. "Either share that, or go get me another glass."

"I think the last thing your liver needs right now is—"

"My liver can handle itself." Red extended his hand toward the drink, and motioned for it again.

"It sounds like you saw a lot of me over the last decade and a half. And I never saw you." Liz paused, before taking another drink and leaning forward to pass the remainder to Red. "Were you at the wedding?" she asked.

Red stopped with the glass near his lips, staring down into the scotch. "No," he said finally, in a low voice. "I wasn't." He took a large gulp before looking back at Liz with a nostalgic smile. "You looked stunning in that dress, by the way. I did see pictures." He returned to staring at the fireplace. "There was one in particular. It was a shot of you, alone, with grass stretching out behind you, and this single, gorgeous, gnarled oak tree…. Your face had such adoration, such happiness, like your smile was absolutely effortless in that moment." Red tilted his head and gave a small, brief smile. "Your husband was obviously standing just behind the photographer, because you're almost looking directly into the camera. If your eyes had moved just a fraction to the left… You can almost imagine that you're smiling that way at whoever's holding the photo. Like you were smiling like that for—" Red stopped abruptly, and looked down into his drink, raising an eyebrow in disdain. "It looked like you had a lovely day, but Tom should have shaved, and based on the caliber of your gown and the venue, he should have worn a tux, not a suit."

"You care a great deal about me," Liz said softly.

"Yes." Red looked up from the glass in his hands. "I care a great deal about you," he repeated. "And I have for a very long time."

Liz stood up and walked slowly over to the couch, coming to a stop directly in front of Red, their legs almost touching. He didn't lean toward or away from her, nor did he move to look up at her.

"Sit back down, Lizzie," Red warned.

Liz lifted her hand and smoothed her thumb across his temple before running her hand around the back of his head, enjoying the feel of his short hair under her fingertips. "No," she replied simply. Curling her fingers, she drew her nails up through his hair, against the grain, and his head tipped forward in response as he let out a tortured breath. Liz took another small step forward, one of her legs placed between his knees against the couch, and Red leaned in to rest his forehead against her abdomen.

Liz looked down at the man in front of her. The top two buttons of his shirt were undone, allowing his collar to gap around his neck. Liz thought about the burns Naomi had mentioned. Second and third degree, over his entire back…

Her need for confirmation won out. Without breaking contact, Liz slid the back of her fingers slowly from Reddington's head, down the side of his face to his neck. He gave another shaky exhale, but his shoulders seemed to relax a little under her touch, as if it relieved some ache he'd been bearing for far too long. Her fingers reached the collar of his shirt, and she very gently pulled it further to the side.

Before she had moved the fabric more than an inch, Reddington lifted his head and caught Liz's wrist, pulling it from his shirt sharply. He looked up at her with a mix of anger and disappointment.

"I know about the burns, Red," Lizzie said quietly. "Naomi told me about—"

"And I know you have a birthmark on your thigh," Red interrupted, not letting go of her wrist. "Does that mean I get to go looking for it without permission, next time you've had too much to drink?"

Liz opened her mouth to reply, but embarrassment stole the words from her, and she bit her lip, her brow furrowing. "I apologize," she said after a beat in a quiet, careful tone. She tried to withdraw her hand, but Red held fast. "I'm sorry, I should never have… that was… I'm sorry." Liz tilted her head, her voice beseeching. "But will you please talk to me about the first time we met? _You_ saved me from the fire. Not my father." Liz pulled against Red's grip until her wrist was level with his eyes, her scar visible between his fingers. "That first day in the Post Office you asked to see my scar. You already knew about my habit. That I… when I'm nervous…"

Red's eyes dropped from Liz's face to the hand he held, and he loosened his grip, adjusting his fingers so he could see all of the scar. The anger on his face softened, and he sighed. "You seemed …so vulnerable that day."

Liz raised her eyebrows. "And yet you were the one shackled to a chair," she pointed out.

"Being bound is not always vulnerability when one _chooses_ to be bound," Red replied.

"And you _chose_ to turn yourself in to the FBI."

"No." Red looked up at Liz. "I _chose_ to turn myself in to_ you_."

Liz swallowed, and moved to the side, sitting down slowly next to Red on the couch. This time he didn't object, and as she settled into the cushions, he finally released her wrist returning both of his hands to cup his glass. Liz carefully placed both of her hands in her lap. "How would you have come back into my life if I hadn't become an FBI agent? What if I'd decided to be a lab technician? Or a legal secretary? What if I'd gotten involved in drugs and died in an alley somewhere at eighteen? What if I'd become a criminal?"

"The best plans are fluid, Lizzie. There's no way I'd have ever let you die a junkie. If you'd become a legal secretary, I would have adjusted. I don't suppose you'd be nearly as handy in a gun fight if that had turned out to be the case, but we'll just chalk that all up to good luck. Then again, if you were a lab tech, you probably wouldn't have stabbed me in the neck, and interrogation rooms wouldn't have been involved the day we met. So… I work with what I'm given." He glanced sideways at her with a pointed look. "Would have been fun if you'd become a criminal, though."

"You gave me to Sam. Any child Sam raised would _not_ have ended up a criminal. You knew that."

"Mmm. Damn. I guess I didn't think that one through," Red replied sardonically.

"You lit a fire," Liz noted suddenly, her forehead creasing. "You were here alone, expecting me to arrive later, and you turned off all the lights and lit a fire." Liz leaned into Red as she reached for the scotch, lifting it from his hands and taking a sip. He didn't move away.

"So?"

"So that's very telling, Red."

Reddington took back the glass with a frown. "Stop profiling me."

"It's my job. Besides, you're lobbing slow moving pitches directly across the plate tonight. What else am I supposed to do with them?"

Red finished off the last of the liquid and moved to place the glass back on the table. His hand froze partway there, and he thought better of it. He passed the empty tumbler back to Liz. "Do me a favor; put that down on the table. I think these glasses are antique." Red leaned back into the couch and closed his eyes as Liz did was she was told. "And as for the slow moving pitches, please do me one more favor, and just… let a few of them pass. You can start swinging at me again tomorrow when I've slept this off, okay? I'm suddenly _exhausted_."

Liz looked back at Red with a small smile. "Okay. But I have a feeling once I take you in to the Post Office tomorrow, either you're going to deny we had this conversation, or the details of the stories will change drastically with the addition of the rest of the team. Are we ever going to discuss any of this again?"

"That's the wonderful thing about life, Lizzie." Without opening his eyes, Red moved his hand over to pat Liz's leg. "There's always the possibility that anything can happen."

Liz sighed, understanding that his response meant it would probably take an act of God to get him to talk about their past again. "Red, when is Dembe coming back?"

"Tomorrow."

"Okay, then I'm going to go check the doors and find one of the guest rooms that has sheets on the bed. Are you okay getting to your room?"

"Yes. I'll head in there in just a minute." Red didn't move.

"Okay," Liz said with a skeptical tone. She stood, and made a quick tour of the large house, finding it secure. She found an empty room made up for guests, and passed what was obviously the room Red was staying in, too, which she also found empty.

Returning to the fire-lit room, she found Red laying on his side over the length of the couch.

"Red?" she asked softly, stepping further into the room. "Red…?" When she got no response, she paused before sighing, leaning over him, and pulling his shoes off. She grabbed a woven blanket and draped it over his legs. The fire had almost died out entirely, and before she left the room, she lightly touched the top of the sleeping man's head. "Thank you," she said quietly, and bent to press a kiss to his temple. "For everything." She straightened, and headed back to the guest room.

Red opened his eyes and shifted slightly on the couch, gazing at the dying fire. "You're more than welcome, Lizzie," he murmured.

…..:::::

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And that's all, folks! I don't have any other story seeds germinating right now, but I'm blaming that on the mental short circuit caused by the dream sequence we just got in 2x03. Ever since I saw that scene I swear my brain isn't functioning properly. I think they broke me.

Additionally, I wasn't trying to make Red be sneaky about pretending to be asleep. I figure he really was exhausted, drifted off, but is also an incredibly light sleeper. Probably one of those people that functions on a few light hours of cat naps each night. Like he admitted to Ressler: he'd love to sleep well again, just for one night. He probably wakes up at the slightest noise. So I'm betting removing his shoes _definitely_ wakes him up.

As always, please leave opinions and reviews before you leave the page! Endings are always SUPER hard for me to write, but I generally want my stories to feel like the next episode could continue off of it, and it's not the end of the series due to massive changes to the overall story arc and canon stuff.

And no, I have to say you probably won't ever get actual M ratings from me either, because seriously you don't want to read what I attempt in that ratings category. I'm TERRIBLE at that stuff.

Thanks for reading! :)

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…..::::: _In the style of Marvel universe movie post-credits:_

The next morning, Liz emerged from her room to find Red in the kitchen, dressed in a pressed three piece suit, reading the paper and eating a grapefruit, the other half of which had obviously been prepared and set out with her in mind.

"Ah, Lizzie! Good morning!" Red said with a bright smile.

"Good morning," she replied, slightly bewildered. "You…feel okay today?"

"I feel great, thanks for asking. Sit; these grapefruit are _delicious_."

"I actually don't like grapefruit."

"Oh?" Red folded the paper and set it down. "Well, then. I'm afraid I can't offer you anything else for breakfast, so we might as well get on the road." Red stood, and grabbed his hat. "Shall we?"

"Sure," Liz said as he gestured for her to lead the way, understanding that the previous night's topics were not still open for discussion.

"I never cared for grapefruits myself until I did this _cleanse_ several years ago with a model in France," Red continued. "Yasmine Goddard. She's a _doll_."

"Yasmine Goddard? Are you serious?" Liz looked at him in disbelief, stopping in her tracks as Red continued out the front door.

"Haven't I ever told you about her? Lovely woman. She introduced me to Mr. Kaplan. Next time you happen to be in Paris, you _must_ stop in and visit her—she owns a _gorgeous_ gallery now."

Liz closed her eyes briefly and shook her head, smiling as she followed Red out the door, pulling it closed behind her. "Okay," she said placatingly. "Next time I'm in Paris."

…..:::::

;)


End file.
